


The Demons We're Made Of

by Lalabinks



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assassination Attempt(s), Aunt/Nephew Incest, D & D who, Dany doesn't remember, Drogon saved his mom, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, How Do I Tag, Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Season 8 Fix It, Sharing a Bed, Volantis, but who cares it's game of thrones, i wrote a thing, my queen, season 7 Jon for the win
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:40:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22624939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lalabinks/pseuds/Lalabinks
Summary: After her, It’s hard to find joy in the little things.Before her, Jon found beauty in her smile, a sight she only reserved for his eyes, during their most private moments. Her laugh spread like Dragonfire across a room.Now he felt numb, a new kind of suffering.Until the raven arrives delivering a scroll, the wax seal unbroken with the unmistakable sigil of the Hand of the King.*After his exile, Jon is trying to move on. But when a scroll arrives with new information regarding the events in Kings Landing, Jon finds himself believing in the impossible.She's gone.He has to see it to know.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 35
Kudos: 115





	The Demons We're Made Of

Days pass in a blur. Life on repeat is no life at all. This far up north the nights were longer than days. But the sun arose each morning, stalling the terrors once again before disappearing behind the mountains, returning the world to darkness. And with it the nightmares. 

The night is dark and full of terrors. 

The damn red woman had been right. 

At first, Jon tries to count each day as it passed, putting a name to the passage of time labeling it before her and after her. 

After her, Jon lives a peaceful life, eating, sleeping, a mere existence. He once dreamed of such luxury, but this life doesn’t feel right, as if it belongs to someone else. He is no longer fighting for his family, the living, or his queen. 

After her, It’s hard to find joy in the little things.

Before her, Jon found beauty in her smile, a sight she only reserved for his eyes, during their most private moments. Her laugh spread like Dragonfire across a room. Her strength influenced the same in others. 

Now he felt numb. A new kind of suffering. 

Until the raven arrives delivering a scroll, the wax seal unbroken with the unmistakable sigil of the Hand of the King. Jon almost drops it into the fire. Nothing good ever comes from such a scroll. 

There is no desire to see what his shell of a little brother wants. Bran Stark of Winterfell died beyond the wall, only the Three-Eyed Raven remains. The boy who climbed towers and begged his older brothers to teach him archery would never have sat by watching as his family burned. The Bran, he once knew, would have warned them, done everything in his power to keep his family safe so they could be together with the people they loved. 

He stands over the fire at the center of the free folk settlement, holding the parchment over the flames, its harsh kiss on his fingertips. He can’t let go, as though some form of dark magic influence or connection to the time before her compelled him to read the letter. 

_ Drogon seems content in the skies above Volantis.  _

His legs give way, sending him stumbling back until the back of his knees hit the back of a stone wall that supplies needed support. He never takes his eyes from the scroll. The scroll shakes in his hands as he ignores the concerned words shooting from Tormund and the others. Carefully, he reads the letter again, this time taking in each word individually in a weak attempt to decipher the meaning behind the cryptic message. Drogon is in Volantis. Content. Happy in Volantis. Not possible. Every night, Jon hears Drogon roaring into the darkness, his cries for his family lost into the night. The heat from the dragon’s flame still feels hot on his skin. 

It's a miracle, Drogon is not burning down every last castle in Westoes. Only his mother’s gentle soothing could return his happiness. 

Air escapes his lungs, leaving him gasping. 

She left this world wrapped in his arms as he bared witness to the last breath as it fell from her parted lips. 

She died. And him with her. 

This scroll contains only lies. Another game by the members of the council. A play by the Three-Eyed Raven to draw him out, to do their bidding. Jon is done being a tool in their games. 

With a simple flick of his wrist, the scroll is sent into the flames. 

It is nothing but fancy words that don’t matter. Though this answer seems to subdue those around him, it isn’t enough to force the implications out of his own mind. Staying with him long after he’d gone to bed. 

She appears in his dream, smiling brightly as they lay curled around each other with nothing between them. No clothes or petty politics. She places her hand on his chest, covering his scar, as though shielding him from harm. It’s easy to forget this was a dream when she kisses him. Her lips are soft and warm, moving against his. She feels so real in his arms. Her skin smooth beneath his fingertips. The tiny catch in her breathing when he does something right. If this truly is a dream, Others can take him. Her tongue meets his, but instead of drinking in the scent of her, he tastes blood. Suddenly it's overwhelming, invading his senses. Pulling away from her, Jon can do nothing but watch in horror as blood pours from her mouth spilling onto his naked flesh. 

He is jerked awake. His body soaked in sweat as his breathing comes in pants. A small nuzzle on his hand diverts his attention to Ghost who looks at him with curiosity. Jon pats the wolf’s head assuring him that everything is alright if only he could offer himself the same consolation. 

Returning to normal is no easy task. For days the words from the scroll whirl around in his head disrupting his daily activities. Not that his days consist of much. Jon does what he can around the newly formed free folk camp. They scraped together the people they could and began a settlement. A few people had decided to live on their own which Jon admires but couldn’t do. Too much time alone with his thoughts would surely bring on the famous Targaryen madness. 

So, he works on building structures to protect people from the cold.  _ Drogon seems content in the skies above Volantis. _ Sometimes he gets a break during which he spent teaching children how to properly hold a sword.  _ Drogon. Content.  _ They often asked him for stories of his time in battle, to which he told them that battle -a real battle- is nothing to fantasize about.  _ Volantis. Volantis.  _ His favorite pastime is going hunting with Tormund. The man’s outrageously, exaggerated tales have a way of distracting Jon, for a time.  _ Drogon in Volantis.  _

After the arrival of the scroll, the words sing in his head. A constant string of what-ifs play on repeat. A small, crazy part of him begins to hope that maybe - just maybe - they could be a reality. 

Is there a possibility? 

No, No. There couldn’t be. 

She’s gone.

It doesn’t matter what he does. She is always on his mind. If he blinks he sees her face. A just reminder of what he lost, of what he took from her. 

Eventually, after many restless days and sleepless nights, he does the unthinkable. Before he could register what has come over him. Jon packs then saw to Ghost’s care, and ventures south with a promise of his swift return. 

The words are a farce. 

Drogon will burn him alive. 

She’s gone. 

He has to see it to know. 

* * *

It is entirely too long a trip to Volantis with every turn filled with necessary risks. Perhaps the most difficult part of the journey is the trip to White Harbor. Jon forces himself to keep the hood of his cloak low over his head. He even ditches his wilding garb in an attempt to not stand out. He stays off the main roads, thankful for all the hunting trips with his father. He knows this land and that makes it easier to travel undetected. 

His time as King in the North made him recognizable. It isn’t that he thinks the newly independent North would care much about upholding his exile. Sansa cannot know. 

All this time has passed, though being beyond the wall Jon isn’t sure exactly how much time, but he hasn’t been able to forgive Sansa. She swore a vow to keep his secret, a vow she betrayed for her own gain. She let him fall so she could rise. The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. If only their father's memory meant anything to her at all, maybe then she would have fought for her family or kept Jon’s trust. 

She will always be his little sister. Her betrayal didn’t change that. If she asks him for help, Jon isn’t sure he will be able to refuse her. 

When he finally arrives in Volantis, locating a large dragon proves to be a far more difficult task than one would think. He searches the skies for the black scales gleaming in the sunlight. Nothing. He listens for the beat of wings or the call to lost brothers. Nothing. 

In the markets, people gather to hear the tale of the Mother of Dragons and Breaker of Chains. Children sit eyes wide hanging on every word. They tell the story of a woman whose beauty was only matched by her strength. Jon closes his eyes and sees her staring back at him. They tell of her time liberating slaves and slaying the masters who chained them, doing the impossible by bringing dragons back into the world and uniting the Dothraki into one Khalasar. Then they recount her downfall, spitting on the lords of Westeros for using her armies and dragons to clear the way for their claim to power. And curse her lover whose betrayal cut deeper than the knife he put into her heart. 

Jon does not return to the markets. 

He spends days asking around for sighting of Drogon facing roadblocks at every turn. The answers come in the form of silent glares or swift changes in the topic as if he hasn’t just mentioned a dragon. It seems the resident dragon of Volantis is heavily regarded. When he is ready to give up all hope, choosing instead to drown his failures in the bottom of a mug of ale, a man with a fish tattooed on his cheek approaches him, and tells him to look for a building in the westside. A red door will stand out among the gray stone. 

Without any other leads to follow, Jon follows the man’s instructions leading him to the poorest area in Volantis. The houses look older than their occupants. If one brick were removed the whole structure would crumble. The people who live there don’t look much better off. Their bodies showing signs of malnourishment and their cheeks stamped with the symbol of a former slave. Despite their circumstances, they walk with straight backs and smiles. 

It is a heartwarming sight to see so many people who are proud of what they have built for themselves. 

In the center of it all is a building that stands above the rest. Where the others slump, this one serves as a pillar of strength. It’s brick smooth, sturdy. Flowers bloom in the garden but most striking is the red painted door sitting among the pinks and purples. A cloud of smoke filters from behind. What follows is the scent of spiced meats. 

Like the others, Jon gravitates towards this place, his feet leading him toward the sound of laughter. Children scream in delight as they chase each other while dodging the adults and occasionally using them as shields in their game. Those who choose not to participate are forming a line that curves around the grounds. Jon searches for the line’s source which appears to be a table set up along the back of the house with plates full of bread, meat and steaming pots of stew. 

His mouth waters realizing he hasn’t eaten anything that day. Unless the wheat in ale counted. He decides to look for the person in charge to see about sampling a bit of food perhaps in exchange for coin or work. When the door is pushed open to reveal a young woman carrying a large pot in her hands. She mouths a thank you to the man holding the door for her before laughing when two children almost knocked the pot from her grasp forcing her to lift it above their heads. 

That smile. The one that is the source of his nightmares. 

The scene before him suddenly spins before everything fades into darkness. 

* * *

Pain was all Jon knew when he opened his eyes. A bright light blinding him and erupting into flames in his skull. With a heavy arm, he covers his eyes to block the source. 

”Oh, I’m sorry.” Jumping at the sound and grazing his shoulder against the wall, he does what he can to access his current situation. The softness underneath him tells him he’s in a bed. Footsteps can be heard as the owner of the voice moves across the room. The room dims around him granting him instant relief. 

When he opens his eyes a second time, Jon sucks in a breath. It wasn’t a dream. She takes a seat in the chair by his bedside. A vision before him. His torment manifesting into reality. Against his own violation, his hand comes up to curl a strand of silver hair around his finger. It’s shorter than it once was, now falling to her shoulders. But just as soft as he remembers from the multiple nights spent curled around each other with her hand on his chest while he ran his fingers through her hair. 

She pushes his hand away, leaning away from him. 

He’s lost all right to touch her. Though her rejection doesn’t sting any less. He should explain, apologize, ask forgiveness, anything but stare dumbly at her. No words come.

She reaches for the table, wringing water from cloth at the basin.

“Can you tell me your name?” She asks while wiping sweat from his brow. 

“Jon Snow.” She returns the cloth to the basin, it lands with a wet thud. Wanting to get a better look at her he pushes himself into a sitting position. His stomach lurches as the flames dance in his skull. 

With a hand on his shoulder, she eases him back onto the bed. “Easy. You hit your head pretty badly.” 

His heart is beating rapidly in the chest. Their eyes met as she hovers above him. She gives him nothing. No sign of hate or love. Resentment. Nothing. Almost as if, he means nothing to her. The thought hurts worse than his head. She pulls away from him. 

“I’m Dany.” 

Jon furrows his brow. Why isn’t she curving out his heart? Or Yelling at him to leave? Her face is almost passive. Why the need for introductions? They knew each other more intimately than anyone. 

“Do you need milk of the poppy?” 

“Don’t you...I…” Jon swallows.  _ This doesn’t make any sense! _ “Don’t you know me?” 

Dany backs away from him clasping her hands in front of her. “You know me?

Jon nods, searching her face for any shred of familiarity. Nothing. 

Her mood shifts. Gone is the woman who patiently nursed him to health only minutes ago. What remains is cold sending shivers down his spine. 

“I don’t know who you are or why you came here. If you are looking for answers you won’t find them here. I have no memory of my life before waking up here in Volantis.” She walks to the door pausing to look back at him. “When you are feeling better, I expect you to leave.” 

She closes the door, leaving him with more pain in his heart than in his head. 

* * *

When he wakes up, he has no idea how much time has passed. After Dany left, she sent up some milk of the poppy for his pain. Sleep had come easy, leaving him no time to dwell on her revelation. 

Sunlight seeps through the cracks left by the blanket, placed there by Dany to block its harmful rays, this tells him it’s at least daylight. Whether it was the same day or a new one, Jon has no way of knowing. 

The pain in his head has become a dull ache, annoying but manageable. Without the distraction of Dany alive and well in front of him, he’s able to get a better view of his surroundings. The room is small and bare but has everything one would need for a short or extended stay. A washbasin is in the far corner, allowing Jon to clean the muck of travel from his face. He dips his hands in the water, shaking off drops of water before running his fingers through his loose hair. 

He studies his reflection in the small shaving mirror, briefly toying with the idea of tying his hair back into a bun, thinking it might stir a reaction from Dany. She often undid the leather band while they were in the thralls of passion. Anything would be better than the cold glare she had given him.

He wants so much to see the spark of her dragon’s fire in her eyes. Needs it more than air. 

If she’s not going to kill him, then she might at least give him some answers. 

There’s a lot more to this house with a red door then he initially saw when he arrived. It’s full of rooms much like his own, so many that he is not sure he will be able to distinguish which one is his. He leaves a tattered leather band on the doorknob to avoid embarrassing incidents. Some rooms have two beds as opposed to one. Most have occupants varying in age. He learns quickly the third floor is off limits to outsiders. Having made the mistake of taking the first step only to be reprimanded by a passerby. When he asked the old woman scolded him for putting his nose where it didn’t belong. 

He finds Dany in the garden, looking every bit the regal queen he remembers. She is sitting on a blanket with a small girl, with dark skin and unruly curls. The girl laughs at something Dany says as she weaves braids into the girl’s hair. 

Warmth spreads through him as his heart speeds up threatening to leap from his chest. 

Dany smiles, throwing her head back in laughter. 

Their eyes meet across the garden and Jon realizes how he must look, standing there, open-mouthed, gawking at her. He doesn’t miss how her smile fades once she is alerted to his presence. She whispers into the girl’s ear, who then gets up and runs pass Jon into the house. 

Taking this as an invitation, he walks over to her as she folds the blanket neatly and drapes it over her arm. 

“I see you are still here,” Dany says, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Jon follows the movement. “Can I offer you any supplies for the road?” 

“No.” She’s exactly as he remembers and yet completely different. Her eyes are still the same violet shade of the Targaryen house. Smile just as contagious and bright. Her eyebrows still rise as she talks. The difference rests on how she looks at him. There is no love shining through her eyes. He realizes that he must look so odd to her. A stranger staring at her like a man in love. “No need.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, choosing to let him continue gawking at her. “You’re not the first to come here looking for answers. You must think I am making this all up.” 

“I believe you.” He softly chuckles the action more a release of breath than a laugh. “If you remembered me, I would be dead by now.” 

She doesn’t find the humor in the statement, pulling at a loose thread on the blanket avoiding his gaze. “Was I so awful?” 

“No.” He assures her. Meaning it with his whole heart, wishing he could make her see herself the way he sees her. Her eyes meet his and for a second he thinks they can put their past behind them, start fresh as two ordinary people who love freely. “You were something else entirely.”

Finally, finally, she meets his eyes.

“Is it strange for you? Seeing me here when you thought I died?” 

It’s better than he could have ever dreamed. 

“It’s not so strange. We have something in common.” He lifts his cotton undershirt, thankful he hadn’t bothered with leathers in the Volantis heat. She gasps at the curved scar above his heart. Her hand hovers over it briefly brushing his skin, before she retreats it and crosses her arms over her chest. 

“How?”

He lets go of his hold on the shirt, letting it fall back into place. 

“I did what I thought was right. I was murdered for it. A red priestess brought me back.” 

“I don’t know how I died. I’ve heard the stories but…” her hands turn into fists, knuckles turning white. “I don’t know why this Lord of Light saw fit to bring me back but I have a second chance. I don’t intend to waste it.” A tear rolls down her face which she wipes away. She looks back to her new home, giving Jon a view of her profile. He wants to take her in his arms, hold her until it erases every last ounce of suffering. 

“I used to wonder the same. If I never returned from the dead I wouldn’t have seen my family again. I wouldn’t have known what it was like to fall in love, and have someone love me in return. I’m thankful for it, even if it was taken from me.” 

“I’m sorry.” He knows she means it. Dany may not remember losing her closest friends but she always had a deep sense of empathy. He admires her for it. “I don’t know love other than that for my dragon. Drogon is the only thing that binds me to my previous life. The only way I know it was real. I would lose myself if not for him.” 

“I’m happy that you have him. That you have each other.” There is an immediate urge to kiss her, to let her know how much he loves her, how he’s missed her and that he won’t ever let her question his love for her again. Not while he still breathes. He pushes the urge away. He curses himself for the fool he was in his last days with her. He pushed her away when he should have been pulling her closer. All because he couldn’t accept his whole life had been a lie. He should have confided in her, assured her he still loved her despite the truth. He just needed time. “I’d like to stay a bit longer. If you’ll allow it.”

She nods. “Jon, were we friends?” Her words are quiet, soft. 

“Aye. We were friends.”

* * *

Over the next few days, Jon does what he can to earn his keep. He spends a lot of time chopping vegetables for stew, even more time washing bowls. The work isn’t hard, tedious if anything. He doesn’t mind the work but would much rather read to the orphaned children while they braid flowers into his hair. As rewarding as that is, the look on Dany’s face when she saw the petals in his curls was more than he desired in a thousand lifetimes. 

It’s easy to see why Dany decided to settle in Volantis. She belongs where she can help others in need. These children would be starving on the street or worse if not for her kind heart. 

She continues to amaze him. 

The first time Jon felt the spark was after the ill-fated mission north of the wall. Then he had been healing from his dive into the frozen lake. That spark ignited a fire. A fire that would consume him with the touch of her skin, her lips on his, her soft moans in his ear. 

He is chopping potatoes when he feels it again. The shock from the light brush of her fingers against his as they both reach for the same potato. He jerks his hand back. The touch burning his flesh. 

He wants to crush her to him, to feel his body be set aflame. He shouldn’t. He knows he shouldn’t. Death has made him desperate. 

The very reason Jon is with her now soon shows his disapproval of their reunion. There are toys left forgotten in the garden, carved wooden horses, soldiers and maidens that the children will want back. Jon is tossing them into a basket when he hears the dragon’s roar. 

The midday sky turning black under the girth of the beautiful beast as Drogon descends. The ground shakes beneath him as the dragon lands who then proceeds to snap and growl at his mother’s killer. 

The last time they met, Jon expected to be ripped in half and burned until his body was unrecognizable, but Drogon did not grant him the sweet release of death. His punishment was living with the guilt of what he had done. Fate was far worse than his exile. Dragons are the world’s smartest creatures. 

He doesn’t run, not that there would be anywhere to hide when a dragon wants you dead. He closes his eyes waiting for the heat of Drogon’s breath. 

It doesn’t come.

When he opens his eyes, Dany is lovingly stroking the snout of her son, whispering soothing words, attempting to calm the enraged dragon.

Drogon only relents when Jon returns to the house, out of sight. 

Afterward, Dany disappears on Drogon’s back and doesn’t return until long after nightfall. Jon had been starting to wonder if Drogon would allow her to come back while he was still in Volantis. He doesn’t mind, not really. They deserve the world, to be together without anyone’s expectations for greatness. She apologizes profusely for Drogon’s behavior. He’s been wary of others, not letting anyone near him or his mother. Jon can’t blame him. Drogon has every reason to hate him. He’s relieved to know someone is looking out for her, that she isn’t truly alone. He silently whispers a thank you to the dragon, one that will never reach. 

* * *

  
  


He almost forgets what he’s done. Almost. 

Watching Dany has become Jon’s new obsession. She’s in the garden planting new vegetables that she tells the children will make them grow big and strong. She buys a tree from the merchant who grossly overcharged. 

“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “He has a family to feed like everyone else.” 

The tree will sprout fresh lemons that will allow her to make a sweet treat for the orphans. But it’s more than that. A lifetime ago, Dany told him after the war once she claimed the throne, they could find a place to get away from it all, someplace warm, find a small house and plant a lemon tree, non-negotiable. 

Often Dany spends her days outside with the children in her care, tickling their round tummies and giggling along with them as they beg for mercy. 

Much like the first day Jon happened upon this building with the red door, Dany offers hot meals to those in need, even dishing out extra servings for their families never asking for anything in return. Their gratitude is enough, along with knowing they won’t go to bed hungry. 

People often stop by to ask Dany for advice. She listens to every grievance, no matter how long or drawn out, their problem is hers and she will do whatever she can to help. 

Her hair is not as long as it used to be. Jon notices she has developed a new habit of tucking it behind her ear. He’s jealous, wishes he could once again be permitted to smooth the stray strands from her face, to undo the braids and run his fingers through the soft curls. She doesn’t wear it in braids anymore, choosing to let it fall freely to her shoulders. As short as it is now, Jon isn’t sure she could braid it if she wanted. It’s Dothraki custom to cut off a braid once defeated, so the world may know their shame. But Jon knows it was the red priestess that returned her to life who was responsible for chopping off her braids before tossing it to the flames. He mourned the loss of his own hair after the initial shock wore off.  _ Would Dany feel the same if she remembered?  _

On some occasions, Jon is positive she is testing him with bits of past, that almost make it seem she has recovered her memory, only for her to rip the hope away a moment later. 

One night as they share a bottle of wine over the fire - it’s not cold but Dany says the flames are comforting - she tells him that she is thinking about buying a horse, one with a silver coat, but she doesn’t know how to properly care for it having never owned one. He informs her that once the greatest horse lords in all of Essos choose to follow her. She laughs, accusing him of teasing, claiming they would never follow someone so small. 

_ They did for you _ . 

He can’t say the words. 

* * *

Dany is strangely absent. On a normal night, she would be the first to tuck each child into bed with stories filling their heads with wonder. But on this night, Jon is the one watching their eyes brighten at his tale of a powerful family who rode dragons into battle and the fearsome warrior queen who made the strongest of men tremble before her. 

Once they are blissfully asleep, he sets out to find her. It’s plausible that Drogon decided to take her for a ride over Volantis. No, he would have heard the thundering of wings as the dragon disappeared into the night. 

He finds her in the garden, sitting on the bench he built and set next to the lemon tree they planted together. Her back is to him as he approaches. She doesn’t turn, doesn’t look at him as his stops just behind her. She appears to be lost in thought. Jon decides to leave her be when he hears a sob escape her, the force of it causes her shoulders to shake. 

He doesn’t hesitate. 

He goes to her, wraps his arms around her. And by the gods old and new she lets him, sinks into his embrace, buries her face in his chest, wets his linen shirt with her tears. 

He kisses the top of her head as he rubs circles into her back. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, a small hiccup follows. She wipes away her tears with the sleeve of her dress, eyes downcast.

Jon hooks a finger under her chin and brings her eyes to his. “You’ve got nothing to apologize for.” He pulls her close to him once more. “You wanna talk about it?” 

She slips out of his embrace biting her lip. 

“I hate not knowing who I was. Who my family was. My friends. The people who followed me. But then in the same breath, I don’t hate it. I don’t want to remember the faces of the men who betrayed me. I don’t want to know what I did - what I did to deserve it.” 

_ Oh, Dany. You didn’t deserve it. Any of it.  _

“I tell you. If you’d like.” She frowns. “Not the bad stuff. Just the good.”

She shakes her head. “It’s better this way.”

“You sure?” She nods again. Jon’s not convinced. “You’re different, but you’re the same. You’re lighter, freer. You have a good heart. You’ve always had a good heart even when you got on to me for brooding too much.” 

She laughs at that. His heart soars. It’s the first that was his doing. And for that he’s grateful. There’s no greater sound in all of Westeros or Essos for that matter. 

His eyes are focusing on her lips, the smile that lingers there and suddenly it slacks before connecting to his. They’re as warm and plush as he remembers. She tastes salty from her tears but so very good. She tastes like coming home. He knows he’s done nothing to deserve this, but he pushes that thought to the farthest space in his mind as he allows himself to become lost in this moment. Where it’s her and him. Nothing else matters. Not his mistakes, not hers. Just them. 

He cups her face pulling her closer as their tongues met exploring what he once thought was gone forever. He kisses her like a man starving, and he is starving, having gone far too long without her touch. He wants to savior this, allow himself this one moment of weakness before reality hits. Like an ugly beast, guilt roars to life in his belly. 

_ You don’t deserve her.  _

He tears himself away, regretting it as soon as he does. Rejection and hurt spread across her face.  _ I’ve done it again.  _ He’s hurt her when he should be comforting her. His demon roars in his head as she burns. 

“I don’t deserve you.” She reaches for him but he stands to put distance between them. “If you knew what I’ve done - “  _ You wouldn’t want me.  _

“What have you done?”

His eyes betray him. They shift down below her breast where he plunged the dagger in her heart. She’s never shown him the scar. Dany covers the mark of his greatest mistake with a hand. 

She slaps him. He feels the hot sting as his face reddens. It doesn’t compare to the wound in his heart. 

She brings a hand up to slap him again, on instinct he catches her wrist. She tears away from his grasp. 

“Why?” Her voice is thick, yet assertive, demanding the truth. 

He cannot deny her. 

“I didn’t have a choice. You murdered thousands of innocent people. You burned a city to the ground.”

She gasps. “I could have attuned for my crimes.”

“You were too far gone.”

Her chin trembles. With sadness or anger, he doesn’t know. 

“Is that what you tell yourself? That you were doing the right thing when you put a knife into my heart.” She sneers at him. Words spitting out hatred with each syllable. “There could have been another way. We could have found another way together. You never gave me the chance.”

She didn’t see the streets, the bodies crumbling to ash. She wasn’t going to stop until every lord in Westeros bowed down to her. Sansa wouldn’t. Arya wouldn’t. It was the only way. It had to be the only way. 

His silence only confirms what she already knows. What he knows. 

“Leave. I never want to lay eyes on you again.” 

His pain cuts deeper than the dagger he used to end the pain of thousands. He does as she asks. 

* * *

There’s no way he can go back to normal now that he knows Dany lives and breathes in this world. 

Jon sits on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands. His trunk is packed, resting by the door, but he can’t bring himself to leave. He wants to see her face one last time.  __ It’s selfish, he knows it’s selfish. She said that she doesn’t want to see him. He owes it to her to listen. It’s the least he can do. He should swallow his pride, pick up his belongings and return to the North where Ghost waits for him.  _ Gods he misses Ghost.  _

But he can’t find the will to leave. 

He loves her still. 

The very thought of leaving is tearing him apart. This time with her, seeing her alive and happy has brought him back to life in ways the Lord of Light never accomplished. Without her, he only existed. He kept moving because he felt he deserved punishment, even if that meant simply living in a world where she didn’t. 

Dany doesn’t want him. 

He doesn't blame her. She has every right to order him to exile. 

Death would be far kinder. 

He will do as she bids. He owes her that much. He grabs longclaw from its resting place and buckles it securely to his waist. Before he leaves, he wants one last look at Dany, to prove that she’s real and he hadn’t imagined it all in some weird fever fueled dream. She would never allow it, but she doesn’t have to know. It’s late enough that tenants have long gone to sleep. It’s possible Dany has as well. His feet are moving before he can talk himself out of it. 

Her room is on the third floor, the door to her bedroom is within his sight when he hears the sound of glass shattering followed by a sharp cry of pain. Instinct takes over. Longclaw is in his hand, his breath coming in heavy pants as he hurries to her room. He kicks open her door, longclaw at the ready. 

A man stands in front of Dany who is crumpled on the floor clutching her side. With one arm she drags herself away from her attacker. 

Jon sees red. 

He slams the man into the wall with a strength that surprises even Jon. The attacker reaches for his dagger but Jon is faster. He plunges longclaw into the man’s chest. The man struggles for air as Jon removes his sword. He slits his throat to be sure and lets the body slump to the floor. 

Dany is still on the floor watching Jon with wide eyes. His rage is quickly replaced by fear. Fear of losing her. 

In seconds, he has her face in his hands, marking her skin with the blood of a dead man, but he can only see her. There’s no blood that he can see coming from her, but she is still clutching her side. He gently pushes away her hands, and softly applies pressure to the flesh. Dany hisses through her teeth. 

A rib or two must be broken. The bastard probably kicked her after she hit the floor. The rage comes back in a wave. Jon wishes for the power of a red priest, so he could bring the fucker back and kill him again. 

Carefully, he takes Dany into his arms and winces with her sharp intake of breath. She loops an arm around his neck digging her nails into his shoulder. He carries her to his room while whispering apologies when a movement causes her pain. 

The noise from the attack has awoken the house, as people fill out of their rooms, each looking at Jon in confusion as he carries Dany. He barks out orders for a healer to be sent to his room. 

A woman with dark skin arrives just as Jon places Dany on his bed. When she removes Dany’s gown to inspect the wound, he turns away and slips from the room allowing her some privacy.

He stands guard outside the door until he knows everything is going to be okay. They were lucky. And for the very first time, Jon was able to save someone he loves. For that he’s thankful. There’s no internal bleeding but it appears that one of her ribs are broken. The healer cannot do much but administer milk of the poppy for pain and order Dany to rest. 

The tenants have removed the body from Dany’s room. Jon doesn’t ask what they did with the body. He doesn’t care. The one thing that does spark his attention is the dagger the assailant dropped. He doesn’t recognize the make of the weapon but it's far more than a hired hitman could afford. 

There’s only one possibility. 

Very few men would have something to gain from Dany’s death. The same ones who hunted her whole life. The same ones who convinced Jon, the world would be a safer place without her. A safer place for evil men. 

It’s baffling that they would inform him of her survival only to rip her away again. Were they hoping he would once again do their dirty work? And when he didn’t, did they decide to send someone who would? Or was this some cruel game they devised to get their cocks off? Here, Jon look she’s alive! Now watch the woman you love die a second time. 

One thing is certain. The council still lives in fear. Fear of Dany’s ability to answer injustice with justice. Her memory is enough to send them cowering in their high castles. 

A just woman with a kind heart is not something to fear but admire. 

Once Jon had been gullible enough to fear her fiery passion. 

Never again. 

She’d given them everything and now they sought one more thing. Her death. Jon will not allow it. He will die protecting her as he should have done long ago. 

* * *

By the gods old and new, Dany permits him to sit by her bed as she heals. She rests against a stack of plump pillows with her hands folded in her lap. The urge to reach out and take one is ever-present, but he doesn’t want to push his good fortune. After nearly being exiled from Volantis, it’s a miracle to simply be in her presence. 

In the days since the attack, he has barely left her side. Often using this time together to tell Dany stories of growing up in Winterfell and what it’s like beyond the wall. He doesn’t tell her the story of how they met or how it all came crashing down. The wound from his admission is still fresh. It needs time to breathe before either can brush the subject. 

Dany seems perfectly happy listening to him talk. She even shyly admits that she enjoys the drawl of his northern accent. 

Fear for her safety weighs heavily on his mind. The smallest noise has him reaching for longclaw which is always within his sight. Things cannot continue this way. Dany shouldn’t have to live in fear.

“I know who sent him,” Jon tells her one day. He cannot sit around and do nothing much longer. Dany who has been mending a dress, sets it aside, giving him her full attention. “They’ll send more. Once they know it failed.” 

She inspects her nails, flicking away nonexistent dirt from under a thumbnail. 

After everything she’s been through, every battle, every loss, Dany remains connected to the little girl who spent a life on the run, fearing that she would be murdered in her bed. Jon feels the tension in his jaw as his hands clench and unclench. All Dany ever wanted was to create a world where people like her could be safe. He wants to give her that if nothing else. 

“We could go to King’s Landing. Show the council that you are no threat.” 

“No.”

He reaches for her hand but stops thinking better of it. Instead, he rubs his knee to quiet the ache. 

“They won’t stop until you’re - “  _ dead. _ Losing her once was unbearable. He never wants to think of her that way again, especially if he has the power to stop it. 

“I will not step foot in Westeros for as long as I live.” Her voice carries throughout the room, commanding and confident. Ever the queen.

“If they see what - “

“Stop it, Jon.” Her hand finds his. The spark igniting between their joined hands. It’s enough to send his head spinning, but her eyes meet his steadying him once more. “I may not have my memories, but I’ve heard the stories. When I think about what they did, people I thought I could trust.” Her voice cracks. Jon places a delicate kiss to the skin on the back of her hand. “It scares me. What I could do if I give into my anger.” 

_ That’s not you.  _

The words are in his throat but then he sees ashes blowing in the wind and clinging to her face as she goes still in his arms. 

* * *

There are no better ideas at least none that he can think of. As much as he wants to, he can’t stay by Dany’s side forever. She should be able to exist in a world without fear of being slaughtered in her bed. 

Jon travels to King’s Landing alone, but not without first assuring that Dany would be protected in his absence. As luck would have it, a tenant was a former squire turned sellsword, the boy - almost a man - was eager to see to Dany’s safety, because she had cared for him when he had nowhere else to turn. 

King’s Landing was a sight that Jon never expected to see after his sentence to the wall. Efforts to repair the city are well underway. The Red Keep towers over the town just as he remembered, there are a few gaps missing from its rooftops serving as evidence of Drogon’s fire. The streets of Flea Bottom remain in a state of disarray. The buildings are half standing rumble that double as homes for the poor. Its residents left to suffer from exposure to the elements. Blankets are hanging to cover the holes, offering some semblance of privacy. Betrothals appear to be the only flourishing businesses. Women wait outside the entrances ushering forward a steady stream of finely dressed customers. 

Jon clenches his hands into fists. His treacherous mind can’t help but imagine the state of the city had Dany been its queen. The poor wouldn’t be living in squalor and betrothals would be few and far between. There would be food in children’s bellies and warm beds for them to rest their heads at night. She would have put the comfort of her people before her own. Jon has never been surer of anything in his life. 

A familiar ping of quilt twists in his belly as he forces the thought away. Dany would never be the queen of the seven kingdoms. She’s better off this way. They don’t deserve her. The hell with the good of the people as long as she is safe from harm. 

It is extremely unnerving how easy it is for Jon to be granted a private audience with the council., having a brother for king holds some advantages. Most likely his arrival had been spoiled by the Three-Eyed Raven. As soon as his feet touch the steps of the keep, two kingsguard appear to escort him to the council room. They don’t ask him if he wishes to see the kings or throw him into the dungeons for disobeying the terms of his exile. 

Bile rises in his throat at the sight of them sitting around the table with cups full of wine as they cheer their good fortune. He has half a mind to run longclaw through them. Lucky for them the kingsguard had the foresight to confiscate the sword. 

The body that once belonged to his brother sits at the head of the table, eyes unmoving, disinterested in those around him. Davos is missing from his chair. Pity, as Jon had hoped to have him in his corner. He could have used Davos’s ability for impromptu passionate speeches. 

“Jon!” It’s Tyrion who acknowledges him first, raising a glass of wine in greeting with a crooked grin. “It’s funny to find you here, and not at the wall.”

Jon tilts his head, shrugging slightly. “By the raven I received, you know I haven’t manned the wall in ages.”

Tyrion gives his own shrug. “No matter. Your exile was simply to appease the Unsullied and the Dothraki. Both of whom have left Westeros. Come have a drink with us.”

Jon stands his ground at the foot of the table. He makes no move to accept Tyrion’s offer. 

“What brings you here, Jon?” His one time friend and brother, Sam asks from the right of Tyrion. He is looking at Jon with sympathetic eyes as if he feels bad about what happened. 

“I think you are well aware.” Not one of them can look him in the eye “She doesn’t remember any of it. What she did. Who she was. She’s no threat to you.”

“Her memory, or lack thereof, makes no difference. She’ll hear the story. You can’t go two feet without hearing of the mad queen. Her rage will get the best of her as it always does. You know more than anyone. She won’t listen to reason once her mind is made.” Tyrion sighs reaching for the pitcher to refill his cup. 

Anger gets the best of him. Before Tyrion can grasp hold of the pitcher Jon slaps it off the table. The pitcher crashes to the floor breaking into pieces. Red wine pools on the floor. The kingsguard unsheath their swords and move to advance but are dismissed with a wave of Tyrion’s hand. 

Jon wishes the pitcher had been Tyrion’s head. He leans closer to the dwarf feeling his own anger coming off in waves. “If that were true, I would be dead. She knows what I did and here I stand.” Each word is spoken with malice but to the dwarf’s credit he does not flinch. 

As much as Jon wants to, he cannot let his anger boil any farther. Dany needs him. He won’t be able to protect her if he’s dead. Everyone in the council appears to let out a collective breath as he steps away. The pitcher cracks under his boots. 

“No one is safe while she lives. Her father’s madness is in her blood.” Brienne speaks trying to ease the tension that had birthed from his outburst. 

“She loves you, Jon. She wouldn’t kill you.” Sam says. 

“She has no memory of loving me. I am nothing more than a stranger to her.”

“But you still love her.” Tyrion waves a hand in the air. 

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn't.” There’s no use denying it. Duty never ended his love for her. “If you kill her based solely on the Targaryen name, you’ll have to kill me too. The Mad King’s blood runs in my veins.” 

“You’re a good, honorable man. There’s no madness in you.” Brienne scoffs. 

“I murdered my queen. There is nothing honorable about that.”

“You did what you had to do.” Sam encourages him. 

“I didn’t. We could have found another way. She lost her armies, allies, her closest friends, and her children. She needed comfort. But instead of helping her, we turned our backs on her. Calling her mad when she needed time to grieve. We plotted against her when we should have been saving her. We took from her until there was nothing left to give and then we tossed her aside. Now you sit here toasting to your victories that were bought with her blood. If not for Daenerys Targaryen none of you would even be alive.” 

These people are the ones he had once looked to for guidance. Now he sees them for what they really are, cowards. He hates them, wants to end their pitiful lives where they sit, so no one else will be crushed for their glory. 

“And what would you have us do? She poses a threat to Westeros, one we cannot forget.” Tyrion says. 

“Let her live out her life in peace. You owe her that.” 

“Ask for something reasonable.”

It was a mistake to come here. It doesn’t matter what he says nothing will get through to them. He’ll kill them all, be hanged for it. He would do it all to keep Dany safe. 

“I’ll kill you if you touch her.” Their lives for hers, there’s nothing more reasonable. 

The kingsguard with their weapons still drawn, advance on Jon circling him with swords angled towards him. If longclaw was at his hip, he could easily cut through them all to get to the council. The only fighter talented enough to challenge him is Brienne. The rest would be as simple as slicing butter. Jon studies each guard until he sees the familiar shimmer of valyrian steel. There the guard to his right. He may be outnumbered but he’s still got his fists. 

“Let him go.” Bran says. His voice lacks any emotion. For the first time, since arriving in the council room, Jon meets the eyes of the king. Bran shows no signs of worry for the life of his older brother’s life. “Daenerys Targaryen will remain in Essos for the remainder of her life. She’s no threat to us. 

All the tension leaves the room. The guards step back. The council votes to allow Dany to live. No one questions the word of the Three-Eyed Raven. The guards return Jon’s sword to him allowing him to exit. He doesn’t look back. 

The wording of Bran’s prediction unnerves Jon more than the lack of emotion. He wants nothing more than to return to Dany, take her in his arms and never be parted from her from this day until his last day. 

* * *

Dany is understandably, apprehensive when Jon tells her the council has decided to call off their assassins. He can’t blame her for not believing the men, who want her dead, have suddenly changed their minds. They’ve already succeeded once. 

But she doesn’t have to spend her life running in fear. She’s built a home here in Volantis, a home where she can finally be free. 

Dany doesn’t like to sleep alone anymore, not since the attack. It’s one of the reasons she allowed him to stay at her bedside. For a moment, Jon wonders who kept her company at night while he’s away. He feels sick at the thought. It’s not his place to worry about that. 

The night of Jon’s return from Kings Landing, he feels the bed shift under him as Dany climbs in beside him. Jon doesn’t say anything, doesn’t touch her, doesn’t even give her reason to suspect he woke when she came into the room. 

Her dreams are plagued with nightmares. She wakes screaming a hand at her side. Only then does Jon wrap his arms around her, and pulls her close to his chest until her shaking subsides and she begins to breathe normally. He doesn’t mention it in the morning, neither does Dany, but she joins him again the next night and the next. Eventually, she stops pretending to sleep anywhere else. 

It’s easy to forget the demons of their muddled history as they slip into a new routine. Dany usually wakes before Jon to help the children begin their day. He joins her in time to clean up whatever’s left of breakfast, picking at the scraps on the plates. Dany’s skill at cooking is improving every day. With a home full of wayward children and boarders, there is always laundry to be done or food to prepare. Dany sends her tenants to pick up supplies at the markets, not wanting to hear the story of her death. And at night she falls into his arms, not in the way he wants, but he isn’t one to complain. 

It would be a dream to stay here with her in this house with a red door and a lemon tree in the garden. A dream, Jon doesn’t want to forget in the morning, but the North calls to him. He hears Ghost howling at the moon as clear as if Jon was by his side. Without him, Jon feels like half a man. Being next to Dany is almost enough to make him whole, but Ghost has left a gaping hole in his soul. He needs him. Jon feels a chill down to his bones from the cold, a cold that the dragon fire in Dany’s veins cannot soothe. 

He’s distracted, often staring into the distance seeing visions of mountains of ice, white fur, and red eyes. A soft touch on his arm brings him back to Volantis to the woman he loves. 

“You belong in the North. It’s too warm here for a northerner.”

_ It’s cold for a southern girl.  _

_ We could stay a thousand years and no one would find us.  _

His smiles at the memory. A waterfall whose natural beauty was nothing compared to the woman standing in front of him. 

“Are you asking me to leave?”

Dany lays her head on his shoulder, her hand finding his. 

“No. I don’t want you to leave.” His heart soars with relief. “You seem distant.”

“I miss Ghost.” She knows all about the direwolf, having listened to Jon tell her every detail about the wolf as she healed. 

“You should go to him. I’d like to meet him someday.”

Jon turns to her and brings a hand to cup her face. “Do you mean it?’

“I want you to be happy, Jon.” 

He kisses her, feels the beating in his chest as her hands smooth over his scars. She breathes life into him with her kiss, igniting the fire in his veins. For the first time since her death, he wants to live, really live. She accepts him even with his scars, his faults, his mistakes, and asks for nothing but his love. Her love is something Jon never expected to be granted again. It’s hers to give. It’s the greatest gift he’s ever received. 

“I hope I deserve it.” He murmurs against her lips. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to cope with the ending of Game of Thrones. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it. Daenerys is forever my queen.


End file.
